GW Lightning Arc 1 Burning
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: The aftermath of Wufei's attack on the Lake Victoria Academy. Zechs and Lucy leading the cleanup operation, Treize visits to pay his respects to the few survivors, among them Otto. But Treize has more bad news to cope with...


**Lightning Arc 1 - Burning**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M for references to an intimate Zechs/Treize relationship.  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: vague references to m/m relationships, some swearing I think, nothing explicit  
Spoilers: mild ones

Summary: The aftermath ofWufei's attack on the Lake Victoria Academy. Zechs and Lucy leading the clean-up operation, Treize visits to pay his respects to the few survivors. But he has plans, and more bad news to cope with...

xxx

"Sir," Une called, breathless from her brisk run to the airstrip where Treize was marching sharply towards his waiting jet. He merely lifted his hand in a gesture that was at the same time acknowledging and dismissive, and kept striding towards the plane.

Bathed in the white glare of the floodlights, the air around the machine was simmering in the cold, dark morning, the whine of the jets and the hissing of the turbulences they created ripping away any subtleties. Treize, like Une, wore combat gear – the all-black flight suit of the Specials combat pilot, personal communication unit and weapon webbed to the jacket, his hands encased in soft leather gloves. His reddish hair blew untidily about his face; he did not bother brushing it back. He was busy pressing the ear button of his comm with one hand, while reaching for the rail of the steps that had been rolled to the jet. Une caught up with him as he gripped the edge of the hatch.

"Colonel, sir!" she yelled against the noise. "Lieutenant Marquise sent word that it is absolutely not necessary for you to leave HQ and-"

Treize stiffened, tilted his head back just a little, but she knew this gesture, knew his expression without seeing more than his sharp semi-profile: jaws locked, eyes carefully blank, lips set in a hard, frosty line…

She swallowed hard, cross with herself. In spite of his smooth diplomacy, Colonel Khushrenada had, in certain not very public circles, a reputation of being awkward to work with. His habit of questioning foggy statements and boiling everything down to the bare essentials, until nothing remained but the facts, hard and shiny as steel, did not endear him to the wordsmiths and bigmouths in the military hierarchy. And his down-to-earth approach to dealing with his troops, while making him popular with his men, instilled a certain fear into certain senior echelons of the Foundation. Lightning-swift wits, a razor-sharp intellect, a stellar education, combined with aplomb, impeccable manners and a dazzling appearance… he easily outshone everyone around him. No, neither the Alliance military, nor the Foundation had been prepared for someone like him.

Une braced herself. "Sir," she bravely tried again, "your security staff-"

He eyed her coolly. Hardnosed, stubborn, unyielding were only a few of the less flattering attributes connected with his name. Although Une knew very well that there were ways and ways of putting things, and usually she had figured him out quite well. It was part of why they were such a close team, but this time, roiling with emotions as they all were after the news of the bombing, she'd gone for the wrong move – Treize would accept advice, but never have anyone tell him what to do. Least of all be commanded by his subalterns…

"I think I should decide for myself whether my presence is required by my troops," he cut in, his voice clear and bright and as hard as steel. "Tell my security staff that one."

And Zechs. Who had taken the unprecedented step of contacting Une, rather than Treize directly, and told her to keep Treize away for a while. The request of a soldier to another of equal rank. A plea. It had shaken Une more than she had expected, for so far, they had exercised a kind of rivalry that ran rather deep, and it was not only based on professional jealousy… Une had worked it out soon enough. They were vying for Treize's attention in more than one way. And she understood that she might not stand much of a chance. It had hurt. A lot. And occasionally, it still boiled up and over. A sensation of loss, grief, helplessness…

Yet they were professionals. Soliders, first and foremost, and Zechs' request for help had been dealt with accordingly. Sympathetically. She had tried to support him, notwithstanding Treize's 'hunch', as he had put it.

Of course both of them had known that trying to keep their colonel away from the bombed base was no more than a bout of wishful thinking, and Une had taken the rap for herself and Zechs when Treize found out that she had delayed the news… how had he found out? Did his need to exercise control stretch as far as monitoring all communication from Zechs? Or herself? He had threatened disciplinary action should they ever try to hide anything from him again, be it as trivial as Zechs' tired, dirt-streaked face and his plea to be left alone until they were done tidying up…

Une drew a deep breath and cracked a smart salute. "Sir, in this case, applying for permission to fly with you," she shouted, unable to suppress a note of exasperation.

A curt nod was all she received for an answer, all she needed to hurriedly clamber after him as he swung himself into the pilot's seat. Une slid into the gunner's place behind him and, after fastening harness, comms and oxygen supply, busied herself immediately with checking the weapons systems of the plane.

Treize tugged on harness and helmet, secured the oxygen mask, and received the clear signal from air traffic control immediately he was done. The Specials had been somewhat of a stuffy unit – hyped beyond merit, unproven in real combat, trained only for limited scenarios – when Treize was assigned command over them. It was a make-or-break promotion. And although one of the youngest war heroes ever decorated, and jolted up the merits list enough to receive a stellar multiple promotion, he lacked the experience to lead a bunch of set-in-their-ways men, most of them at least twice his age, who considered themselves seasoned fighters.

He had taught them better than to take him lightly. Charming and tough as nails, he had not hesitated to sacrifice a number of units in the process. To make it plain that they were at his mercy. That he was prepared to face down the rumours that he was a sissy, and that he was the one who could change a deadly scenario into one of survival or victory for them. He had let them run a long course, on a long leash, and some of their most vociferous would-be commanders had duly hanged themselves. The rest of them got the idea. They were not stupid men. Along with his hard hand, he had shown them fairness and acknowledged their skills, and it had taken him all but a few months to turn them into his professional pride, a well-oiled machine, an intervention force at his beck and call that had no match anywhere on Earth or the colonies.

The colonies had taken note. And they had sent something of a surprise present to the freshly polished Specials…

The jet took off. Treize had lost none of his piloting skills while spinning politics, attending balls and mulling over tactical charts. His style of flying had nothing of the suave, smooth persuasion he so liked to display at the negotiation table. He pushed the jet, himself and his co-pilot to the limits, the g-force crushing them into their seats as the plane shot into the bleeding sky.

Over the Eastern horizon, the sun was rising in a haze of fire.

Aggressive, cold, calculated. Skirting the borderline between risk and irresponsibility with unerring precision. Une glanced up from the instruments into the blazing sky and mused that no soldier should feel safe in such a place, at such a time, yet Treize conferred an icy calm that allowed her to relax, even here…

So different from Zechs' heated style, yet extremely efficient, getting the best from the machine as well as from his soldiers without inviting unnecessary risk. The hallmark of an outstanding commander, she thought with a twinge of pride.

She sucked in a deep breath as she felt the blood sag slightly to her legs, in spite of the pressure chaps that wrapped snugly around her calves.

Zechs had been spending time at the Academy to work on advanced designs for new mobile suits while also preparing some of the latest developments for their technological readiness test. He was dividing his time between sinking in paperwork and flying. Treize had been concerned about Zechs overworking himself, yet instead of forcing him to take time out, he had only driven the younger man more. Zechs appeared to appreciate this. They were racing along on their path at a feverish speed, ceaseless, unstoppable, as if time and the universe had contracted to a single, black point somewhere in time.

Apparently they had just found out where, and what that point was.

During the past few weeks, Zechs had been in contact with Treize directly at least once a day to update him on the progress of the projects that also served as a testing field for the most outstanding cadets the Specials academy had to offer. Fresh blood for Treize's stellar pet unit; andonly the best of the best would make it into the select ranks…

The day before, Zechs' communication had been hours overdue, and when he finally came on screen in the small hours of the fading night, the picture was grainy, unstable and sometimes blacked out. What he had to say came across patchy, through a scratchy line, but they got the idea.

His news had been terrible.

And when Treize found out with a delay of a mere couple of hours, he had interrupted an early meeting with some of his top officers, excused himself and yelled down the comm system for his jet to be readied.

Time had shifted, and now they were cutting through the brightening sky towards that black point.

xxx

Blue, white, grey flitting past, a blur of faded colours melting into a wash of dirty brown as the jet climbed down. Une heard Treize talk with the base tower, then he pushed the plane towards the runway.

She caught glimpses of what Zechs had talked about, and quickly returned to concentrating on her instruments. It was the first time she would witness this kind of destruction, and she tried to brace herself.

xxx

Zechs' eyes were sore and puffy when he gave his report, his voice hoarse and halting.

The Academy had been under fire. The bunkers had held fast. The training facilites, the airfield, even most of the hangars were nearly undamaged.

The dorms and civilian quarters had taken the direct hit.

xxx

Treize allowed just enough time for the ground personnel to adjust – no, he absolutely never wasted time, as though he was living by seconds measured to him by some jealous god.Une acutely registered the hard touch-down, the racing strips of colour and light, and the almost violent kick of the reverse thrusters as the jet finally sank down to the landing patch.

Treize disentangled himself from his harness as soon as the plane came to a rather abrupt halt, and he was out of the cabin in a flash, the hiss of decompression barely faded.

He was received by a stone-faced Lucy Noin and a mask-covered Zechs. Une could tell the blond was shaken by how still he appeared. No fussing with his hair that was wound into a very tight knot low at the nape of his neck. No fidgeting about dress – they wore combat gear too, laced assault boots, teflon vests, complete with personal weapons to include stun guns, and dangling oxygen masks. They were ragged, dirty, covered in blood and ashes.

They saluted in silence, precisely, and entirely without flourish.

Treize gave Lucy a quick, sharp all-over. Apparently content that she was not seriously hurt, he ran a probing glare over Zechs. Standing behind her commanding officer, Une saw the almost unnoticeable sagging of Treize's shoulders: he was relieved to see his friend unharmed.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

"Sir," Zechs said, his voice oddly still. "Perhaps you should get some dust masks first."

"Yes, perhaps." Treize began to walk towards the ruins of the base. The rest of them just followed.

Ruins. Beneath a dense layer of greasy black smoke that drifted lazily over the entire site. They could only just breathe, and now and then, a coughing fit would wrack one or the other member of their small detachment.

Towers of ruins. Fields of ruins. Mountains of rubble and steel girders. Sizzling craters in the tarmac that covered most of the base ground. A stifling, nauseating stench of burned tar, smouldering plastic, kerosene… and scorched flesh, human waste, and blood.

They had left behind the glorious skies and flown into a cloudy, humid morning that refused to rise and brighten, as if, in the midst of the rush of life, time had dropped into a dark void...

"The inner quadrants are fine," Zechs began to detail his coarse report from the night before, "with hardly any damage to anything, and no casualties; most of the men were off duty and asleep. I checked the sweeper tapes and all relevant surveillance records; we registered absolutely nothing until it was right upon us."

Lake Victoria was a large base. They wandered past the inner perimeter gate and on, along the road that led to the civilian quarters: semi-highrises and blocks of flats for the families of most of the officers posted here, and the dorms for the fresh cadets.

Now the small group was walking between piles of rubble, shrouded by the pong of death. Treize and Zechs were talking. Discreetly, Lucy Noin fell back a little; Une did the same – it seemed that Zechs and Treize were arguing; suddenly, Treize grasped Zechs' upper arm and tugged harshly. Une could not catch their words, but Treize's tone was unmistakeable, along with Lucy's shocked glance. Treize even pushed Zechs back a little, pressing gloved knuckles against the younger man's broad chest. Zechs lowered his head and nodded, a gesture of defeat; Treize turned his back on all of them and strode on.

An eerie silence had settled over the ravaged site.

xxx

The inspection was terribly easy. For the greater part, it consisted of counting their dead. The surviving men were in bad shape, and a handful of field paramedics struggled to do their sorry job with subdued efficiency and dust filters over mouth and nose. The smell of death lay cloyingly sweet over the base, unshifting in the brooding heat of the day like some heavy blanket, woven of smoke and blood and burned flesh.

"Might as well be better that most of us here are gone," Zechs remarked without looking at Treize, "for you haven't seen the worst yet."

The worst.

Treize, who had been in such a frantic hurry before, suddenly had all the time of the world. He scrambled through the ruins, talked with his soldiers, listened intently to their exhausted replies to his questions – even now, they tried to pull together some kind of report, discipline ingrained beyond conscious thought. He asked their names, so he could memorise them later. He had read the first crude lists, of course, and knew those of the fallen already by heart …

The men were surprised. They were bitterly content. Their commander remembered them, all of them, from the youngest cadet to the most distinguished officer, commissioned and non-commissioned alike. It felt good to be remembered. Treize talked with quiet confidence, imparting some of this apparently unshakeable calm on them. He used their names. He did not offer consolation; he offered them a focus instead, and a way forward. A goal and a way.

They understood.

And they let their grief grow into something else…

xxx

The worst lay beyond a flattened section of the inner perimeter fence that surrounded the military compound.

Treize walked on, followed on his heels by Zechs, Noin, and Une.He left the complex after what seemed the tiniest pause, no more than a break in the determined, purposeful rhythm of his steps, an indrawn breath, a hitch of his heartbeat…

By the rather large ruin of a long, two-storey building, a rescue team of half a dozen men were trying to burrow into the mountain of rubble between torn steel frames, chunks of melted concrete, gushing waste pipes and hissing flares from torn gas pipes. At the edge of the field of ruins, laid out in a wide arch, was the result of their labours.

Packed side by side to save space. Uncovered for there were not enough bags and no one to care. No one left to be able to identify and label the carnage… limbs laid to rumps that were lacking any. Faces without flesh, no more than blackened skulls. Heaps of trailing, bleeding flesh in puddles ofdirty water and congealing blood. And further away, by the ruin that gaped into the grey sky like a foul-toothed grin…

Zechs dragged the back of his hand over his face. Swallowing hard to control her heaving stomach, Noin looked away. And then it hit Une with sickening clarity what they were looking at.

The school.

Treize stood utterly still as his gaze swept over the rows upon rows of small bodies.

xxx

One of the men scrambled towards the small group. "Colonel, sir." He sounded exhausted, his salute was sloppy. "We didn't realise…"

"Never mind," Treize said, his voice low and scratchy, as he returned the salute calmly. "I can see you are busy."

The man's blue eyes clouded; hedrew a swift, choked breath. "Lt. Otto, sir. We… everyone who still can move's working here."

"Yes. How many?"

Otto scrubbed at his face with a dirty, blood-spattered hand. "So far… so far…" He faltered, then blinked, and from his narrowing eyes, a pair of clear, pale tracks trailed through the grime on his cheeks. "Two hundred sixty five fatalities, sir, all civilians, plus eight cadets. About two dozen injured personnel, with five in intensive care, but I'm no paramedic, sir." He paused, rubbed his sleeve over his face, before biting out, "We don't think anyone survived the hit on the school, sir. Lessons had just started…"

"Thank you, lieutenant," Treize replied, barely above his breath. "You may go back to your work."

"Sir." Otto saluted again and did as told.

Treize looked suddenly ill, and when Une moved to touch him, he raised his hand to hold her back. A small, shielding gesture, before that hand came up to briefly cover his face and pinch the bridge of his nose.

xxx

Other recovery units arrived hot on Treize's heels, to help with clearing up, and to relieve the exhausted, shocked survivors. It was a race against the oppressive heat, notwithstanding the cover of clouds that piled high into the sky, brooding with the first rain of the season that followed the time of scorched soil. Even so, the stifling stench of putrifying flesh spread over the base faster than they could retrieve bodies from the rubble, and the medics had started to vaccinate people against all kinds of diseases.

Treize, Une, Zechs and Noin had moved on to inspect the part of the base that lay buried several storeys below the surface, the bowels of an intricate network of bunkers, command stations, and Mobile Suit silos. The first round confirmed what Zechs cursory survey had stated – most of the installations turned out to remain intact and in good working order.

Merely adding to their tragedy.

Zechs had taken off to keep the rescue works co-ordinated, and Lucy was taking care of their communication with the world outside the disaster zone, while Treize went over the security logs and the files holding the most vital data, accessible only to personnel with the highest levels of clearance. Uneassisted him; this included to ensure he bothered to eat at least a few ration bars to supplement the litres of coffee he was drinking.

In the evening, with the relief units digging and scraping away by the glare of powerful floodlights, with the rumble of heavy machinery making th eground shake, Treize stepped into the makeshift infirmary in one hall of the bunkers.

"Is everyone here?" he enquired quietly, making his presence known, as much as deformalising it in front of the small assembly of wounded men.

Those who could move scrambled from their beds to greet him, and the young lieutenant whom they had met on the field of bodies saluted. "Yes, sir." He looked ready to faint, with a bloodstained bandage around his right lower arm. They all looked closer to dying than living – about a dozen men in uniform, a handful of injured civilian personnel. The pong of blood and dirt hung stiflingly in the room, the reek of destruction, sweat and fear… and tears.

For once, Treize allowed compassion to show on his face. A storm of sorrow that broke his smooth features and made him look shaken and very young – the face of a pain-stricken youth barely beyond his twentieth year, a soldier grieving for his fallen…

He swept the room with a glance that met everyone's eyes, and his voice was cool and soft when he spoke. "The day our eyes don't burn anymore is the day we cease to be soldiers and turn into common killers." He paused, gathering himself, allowing them to absorb his words.

Zechs remembered having heard Treize's father tell him this after the fall of Cinq. Wrapping a terrified six-year old into his rough, blood-drenched coat when stealing him from the slaughterhousethe palace of the royal family had become. That night, the then Colonel Khushrenada hadbroken faith with his superiors at the Federation Forces anddestroyed his carreer to follow his conscience at last. That night, Zechs' family had been wiped out in a haze of blood and fire, while his own life was saved at the hands of the man who had been in command of the operation. That night, he had come home to Treize. And he wanted, he needed to believe it was not only for political reasons that Treize's father had pried him from the wreckage of his old life, to raise him together with his own son…

"We have lost this battle," Treize said into the heavy silence. "We lost to an enemy who showed himself as cruel as he is dishonourable. Today, we witnessed his true colours. Red, for murder. Black, for guile and the blind force of destruction. He did not heed the lives of innocents. Children. Non-combatants." Another pause, longer this time, before he solemnly posed his question. "Tell me what fate such enemy deserves."

"They must die," came their response. A prompt, dull rumble, cut by Otto's rough voice, "We will kill them. Every single one of those bastards." He stared at Treize. "You tell us how, Colonel, sir. We'll do whatever it takes. Wegot nothing to lose anymore."

Treize scanned their faces once more, carefully checking for agreement or dissent. He appeared content with the result. "Thank you. Our hopes for a peaceful solution have been squashed. The negotiations with the colonies utterly useless. Now, we are facing war. We have suffered a terrible loss." He raised his chin a little, bluegaze embracing them all as he finished firmly, "And so I swear, I will lead you to victory. We will win this war, once, and for all. This is my promise to you."

xxx

SoTreize,several levels below thecommander in chief of the Alliance forces, declared war before the event had been officially evaluated. Before the politicians could place their spin on it and formalise whatever declarations they would publicise. He had done it for them, in plain, simple words that his soldiers understood and took to heart.

Zechs felt cold.

When they went to their assigned quarters,he trailed after Treize. They had barely exchanged a word since their argument, but Zechs agreed deeply with his friend's address to the surviving men.

Treize's brand of comfort sat rather well with his soldiers. They knew he understood, that he would not yield - neither to sorrow, nor despair, nor to an enemy that proved to be far more formidable and ruthless than anyone had expected. They perceived him as one of their own, in spite of the gulf in pedigree and education between him and most of them.

Still… Zechs bit his lips. No time to discuss matters now, with Une and Lucy around.

"What did you argue about?" Lucy managed to whisper to Zechs as they entered the suite of rooms after Treize and Une.

Zechs pulled off his mask-like helmet, his bangs sweaty and greasy, plastered to his temples in wild strands. His face was ashen, his eyes dull with exhaustion. "The Specials unit I sent after this guy you let get away."

"But-"

"Just don't lecture me, Lucy. Please. Kid or not, if he was the one who flew this bomb into us here, he'll do it again. You've seen all those dead children…" He broke off to draw a few quick, shallow breaths, then he shook his head. "He's a weapon, not a soldier. I hoped the snipers would take him out before Treize got here, but Tre's always been a quick mover, and he ordered me to recall the team to base."

She bit her lip. He folded his hands in front, helmet dangling from crooked fingers, while Treize crossed the room, taking in the comm console, computer terminals, field beds at one side, and two steel desks on the other. "It will do fine," he said to Une, "I will call you when I need anything."

Une and Lucy saluted and withdrew, and Treize plopped down on the chair in front of the terminal.

He gestured at the chair opposite him. "Sit down," he told Zechs, "and tell me about your progress on Tallgeese."

xxx

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck you all!"

Treize winced. Zechsrarely didswear, let alone yell obscenities across a hangar at a haggard-looking crew of engineers and mechanics. Treize hesitated by the half-open slipdoor to watch the scene in the wide, coldly lit hall. They were using the cooler hours of the night as much as possible – which, in Zechs' book, did not mean that they would relax during the day…

Uncharacteristically, Otto, apparently in charge of the small group, made no reply. Instead, he hissed and growled at his team who were busy deep inside the main electronics chamber of Tallgeese, located in its head, three storeys above the ground. Their working platform was shaking and vibrating as they scrambled in and out of the tight hatch, trailing wires and test equipment.

In the few days Treize had spent at the base so far, Otto had not been choice about his retorts – aristocratic prick was one of the milder ones, and he had not been afraid to let anyone hear him. Stubborn, filthy grease monkey was one of Zechs' more affectionate terms for his chief engineer. Otto was a bigmouth, no doubt, but the man put substance behind his bluster. Treize knew his file: from a promising start at the Academy, Otto had slipped into a mode his superiors described as recalcitrant, insubordinate, marked down for promotion a few times until he had plummeted so far as to fall through the bottom of the merits list, his carreer damaged beyond repair.

Unlike Zechs, Otto had not been able to profit from a guiding hand as hard and determined as Treize's.

Otto and Zechs had been yelling at one another almost constantly. To a cursory observer, they were ill-matched – a restless, highly strung, burningly ambitious sixteen-year old, striving for the pinnacle of a MS piloting carreer; and the unruly mechanic, several years his senior,barred from what he was craving – to step out from the maintenance routine, into the development of new suits. Treize knew a discontented, angry, disgruntled talent when he saw one, and with a twinge of pride he mused that Zechs had a sharp eye for the same and did not shun the challenge of working with someone like Otto.

But then, perhaps it was more logical than accidental – beyond the superficial, those two were were much alike. Tempers always flaring, the air crackling with tension and thick with swearwords when they were working together.

Treize's sharp mind discovered the pattern soon enough: Zechs applied his tempers rather methodically, to irk Otto, to push, tease… pique his professional pride and reveal the extraordinary engineer behind the crude mask. Zechs undauntedly undid the curb that a non-privileged background, thwarted ambition, and rigid instructors had placed on the man.

Still, given the level of trust necessary between a pilot and his team, it might have been considered an odd choice. Treize had heard the story: after Zechs' rather spectacular crashing of a test craft, Otto had muscled his way into the sickbay and yelled at Zechs for getting the team into trouble…

"Fuckin' stupid moron," he had screamed, brushing off the nurses that tried to pry him off Zechs over whose bandaged form he leaned, "Forensics are shreddin' us 'cos you were wanting a ride on a dragon! They're accusing _my men_ of shoddy workmanship! Not to mention what else they're spouting! I'm not having that! So what went wrong, ace?"

Not, 'what did you do'. Zechs had always been highly sensitive to nuances, and Otto was always painstakingly precise. By his choice of words, he had let Zechs know that he did not blame him, that he accepted some sort of technical failure…

They had figured it out soon enough – faulty circuitry, misfiring thrusters, falsified parts certifications… Their report, firmly endorsed by Treize, caused a short,violent upheaval in the higher stratae of the Foundation, revealing what Treize termed a shameful lack of resources allocated to the MS project, and the supply of sub-standard materials to the development teams…

It had gotten Otto's team off the hook and handed Treize a perfect argument to bully through the approval for more funds for his projects. True to form, he ruthlessly exploited the opportunity.

Zechs in turn had insisted on drawing Otto aboard the Tallgeese project. Tantrum throwing teenage pilotes with princely blueblood, attitude and steely reasoning were more than Treize wanted to handle at the time. He had found reason to congratulate himself on a number of occasions ever since…

Through the gap, he watched Zechs pace across, clamber up to the platform, and plunge his arms into the panel box on one side of the hatch. He rummaged around, the muscles of his neck straining as he craned, bent, almost crawled into the narrow slot.

It occurred to Treize that there could be only one reason why Zechs was not actually doing just that,which would serve to increase the blond's frustration beyond boiling point – at six foot two, he was simply too tall. Pilots tended to be rather short if burly. Zechs always had trouble fitting into a cockpit, folding his legs in the narrow space between the consoles and the edge of his seat, or finding a suitable harness for his size. And now he quite obviously feltas though he was working by remote control where he would have much preferred to use his own hands. Zechs was tactile, he would brush the pads of his fingers over a piece of electronics almost lovingly, feeling up the metal limbs of the suit like a lover…

Treize shook the thought off with a shudder. This was simply not the place or the time for such dreams.

Zechs peered into the innards of the box, a few matted strands of hair falling over his brow, a snarl of utterannoyance distorting his features.

He was taut enough to shatter, Treize mused vaguely, so tired… hollowed out… had he taken a break after their debriefing in Treize's quarters, and how long had he gone without sleep already?

"Holy fucking shit," Zechs burst out, pulling back and emphasizing the expletive with a furious kick against the lid of the box. Not quite healed from the crash, he was still wearing a bandage around his right shoulder, revealed by the slipping collar of the black boilersuit he wore. The dirty cotton strips were coming loose, and as he turned on his heel to storm back down, he tore at it, carelessly revealing raw sutures and scarring flesh. He unravelled a good length, and tossedthe bandageinto a nearby empty oil barrel that served for a garbage bin.

Silently, Otto and his men collected a few tools and began to re-wire and fasten thechaos of parts and boards.

Treizes wedged himself just inside the hangar. Zechs marched to the test station built along one side of the hangar. A long bench of consoles, screens and terminals, along with a few stools. This, for the time being, was Tallgeese's heart – the documentation and data models Treize had salvaged from the wreckage of the abandoned project. The complete set of parameters used in the disastrous previous tests, the secrets of the machine's unique neural network…

Zechs spent most of his time here. Now he half-sat, half-knelt on a swivel-stool and hammered away at one of the keyboards, tapped a few touch screen panels, and hit Enter. "Anything?"he hurled over his shoulder, eyes riveted on the keys, ignoring the screens where Tallgeese flimmered to life. From a slot next to his screen, a series of printouts emerged amid the soft hum of a fast printer. Zechs did not spare them as much as a glance.

_He does not want to see yet,_ Treize thought, _he is angry… and afraid. We all are. This is so much bigger than anyone expected… gods, even I… what did I do? Am I guilty of miscalculating, overestimating myself? I mustn't… no, I will not fail…_

A low hum began to rise in the tense silence that filled the hangar, and then…

A yell of joy, a shout of frustration–

"She lives! The fuckin' bitch's breathin'!"

"To hell with it!" Zechs whirled around, mouth gaping, hair beginning to fall apart, hands clenching in rage.

Treize expected him to shout at the mechanics again, perhaps to scream about faulty parameters… taking in their exhausted faces, the utter misery that accompanies a crucial failure… Otto barely capable of keeping on his feet, the rest of them in various stages of overexcited and ready to pass out…

Zechs snapped his mouth shut. A tiny pause, then a markedly forced, "Great. Get lost, Otto, go for some rest. All of you."

Otto wiped his eyes and shook his head. "But-"

"That was a damn order, lieutenant, in case your hearing has suffered of late."

Oh, he could swear indeed, although this was a mild one… Treize wondered briefly, then decided that he had learned his own stock of seasoned phrases at the Academy, and the rest on combat missions, with a few basics gleaned from the stable hands and groundsmen back home in Russia, at the estate.

Zechs checked his pilot watch. "We'll sort the old can soon enough. You have four hours, lieutenant, from now. We'll meet here at precisely… three hundred thirty five hours." A grim little grin, baring clenched teeth. "Get bent."

This time, they obeyed without another word. Tagging to the top end of the hangar, between the rows of lockers, to drop onto heaps of discarded clothes and blankets that had become surplus supplies overnight…

Zechs was about to sink back down onto his stool when Treize stepped out of his shadowy corner by the door, leaned forward into the dull blue sheen of the screens and laid his hand across the keyboard. "You too," he ordered quietly. "Sleep. Now."

Zechs gave him a baggy-eyed glare. "What are you doing here? I'm not gonna move," he slurred, but he was too tired to resist when Treize hauled him up and out. The night was black and clear, the stars glinting from a velvety sky. It was cold after the muggy heat of the day, and the stench of death was still filling the air. Treize kicked the door; it thudded shut behind them with a metallic twang.

He just managed to catch Zechs, who crumbled against him.

_The death of Cinq,_ Treize thought, trying to shut out the compassion that tried to wrench his heart and render him a bundle of pain, unfit to command. _Memories… they have to be overwhelming him…_

He did not cry. Sixteen-year-old Zechs could not cry. But his fists clawed into the webbing of Treize's combat jacket as he tried to stay on his feet, his limbs racked with shudders and cramps… and those small, stifled sounds thattore from his throat…

Treize held him firmly but did nothing else. And when Zechs stilled at last, leaning limply against his friend, Treize put cool lips toZechs' fever-hotear and said, "I cannot comfort you."

In the distance, the bulldozers had begun to dig a large pit on the edge of the field of bodies, deepening the widest crater the explosions had left.

"I have to be back at the bunker," Treize went on. With the survivors, where he belonged.

A fresh shiver ran through Zechs, and he tensed, then pushed himself away and straightened, brushing his hair back from his face with a gesture that veered oddly between defeat and determination. "Yes… of course…" Faint withexhaustion, he swayed back against the metal wall and gripped the doorknob. "I… have to be here."

xxx

The next morning, when Zechs and his team stumbled into the mess hall for some energy bars and coffee, Treize had gone. Flown to Brussels, Une told a bewildered Zechs and a bemused Otto, to sort out a few things…

Treize returned the same evening, with a select group of high-ranking brass in tow, all of them officers of his elite Specials, drawn from the top of the hierarchy and jingling with ribbons and medals. Fuelled by coffee and basic canned food as any soldier would find in his rations, they secluded themselves in Treize's suite to pore over charts and scenarios.

A damp, steaming morning rose over the crater that had become a field of graves, turned to oily brown mud by a steady rain that had begun that night and was sloshing down relentlessly. Dark, sticky mud that clung to polished boots and spattered smart parade uniforms, the smell of dying gone stale, creeping into dank fabric, and soaking into hair and skin as a small procession moved from the flattened ruins to the pit that had been filled up with bodies large and small.

There had been enough spare uniforms to neatly kit outeveryone. The men had been at pains to turn themselves out immaculately, and now, carrying the spread dark blue flag of the Alliance between them like a silken coffin, they looked…

_Undefeated_, Zechs thought, casting a glance at Treize who followed the flag, his face unreadable, his eyes… _cold? No… dark… so dark…_

They marched in silence, with solemn, measured steps, heads held high, boots squelching in the mud. Ahead a cadet with their standard, the pale blue silk wrapped neatly around the ceremonial staff. Behind him, another cadet, one arm bleeding through his uniform, the other one holding his cornet, tucked neatly beneath his wounded arm, abiding regulation to the letter. Then came the flag bearers, Treize, followed by his officers, highest ranks first, the soldiers marching after them, with the civilians bringing up the rear of the small train.

The bulldozers had ground knee-deep ruts into the soggy soil. The procession moved almost hesitantly, but move it did, no matter that their steps faltered occasionally – they supported one another, leaning together, reaching out to steady their comrades, letting no one fall.

And so they arrived at the pit that had been bulldozed shut in the small hours of the night, when it was decided that the search and rescue operation was over. The machines stood at the far edge, silent sentinels, grey in the rain that began to fill the sunken pools, glinting glumly in the timeless light, drops dancing and bursting on the turgid water.

The procession halted at the edge of the sodden field, beaten by the unceasing rain, and the youth with the standard planted the pole between his feet. Slowly, ceremoniously, he unwrapped the cloth. The sky blue silk was soaked through but remained light enough to shift and flap about, and when it unfolded, they all saw…

Embroidered in gold and silver, the flag that was the symbol of Treize's loyalty, his plans, his ambitions. The banner of the Specials.

Without a word, Treize pulled off his gloves and stretched out his hand. One of his staff of officers stepped forward and handed him…

A rose. A strong, single stock, richly studded with buds and blooms in deep red and shimmering white. War and peace. Him and Zechs. Death and Life... A memento from his home.

He bent his knee, dug into the yielding soil, and set the bale of roots into the wet earth. Then he got up in a fluid, measured motion, took the offered rag to wipe his hands, and pulled his gloves back on. "May this be our memorial to our fallen," he said in a clear, strong voice. "Not a dead thing, a stone, a plaque… no. Something living. Bright. Blossoming, like those children were. And… and may it grow forth to remind us of our purpose, our aim, our duty, and our calling. And may, when we are gone, this living thing proliferate, be cut and taken, in pieces, elsewhere, yet continue to live as they will live in our memory. They are with us. And we… we cannot die."

"We cannot die," a soft murmur rose from the small assembly.

Treize turned, a look of surprise on his face, giving way to a slow, wistful smile that barely curved his lips. "I will renew this rose... until our final victory. It shall remind me of my oath." Then he turned back to salute the field, the rose, and the war about to begin.

The cadet with the horn began to sound the last bugle, and a salute was fired to see their dead home. Two of the cadets folded up the Alliance flag into a wadded triangle that they offered to Treize. Who accepted it, allowing emotions to show – grief, determination, pride, with all the wonderful pathos ofhisRussian soul.

_What an odd mix,_ Zechs thought vaguely, _why is it that to him, this seems_ _as much an exercise in skilful manipulation as an outpour of sincere sorrow… and why is it so terribly cold now? Ah, the rain, soaking our rags…_

And then it was over. Rain pearling over the lone rose tree on the abandoned field of silence, while everyone made their way back to their tasks.

xxx

The sleeves of his black overall rolled up over his elbows, Zechs bent over the battered steel sink near the hangar slipdoor and let a stream of cold water splash over his hands and lower arms. His ponytail was about to dissolve, and his fringe and bangs surrounded his haggard features in a wild, dirty halo as he proceeded to scoop out a glob of semi-liquid soap from a box on the ledge of the sink. He soaped his arms and even his face and neck, and washed soap, blood and grime off with generous handfuls of water. His overall was a torn, mud-encrusted, bloodspattered mess; his laced assault boots had changed colour from neat, polished black to a dirty grey-brown.

"You look bushed," Treize remarked quietly. He stepped across the raised threshold of the slipdoor and pulled the door shut.

Zechs gasped and leaned his forehead against the steel splashback. Treize wore the same kind of attire, but on chest and shoulders of his overall gleamed his rank insignia. He stretched out his hands and let the water rush over them for a few moments.

"You startling me like that doesn't help," Zechs groused, straightening to glare down at Treize with tired eyes.

"I am sorry." Treize scooped a handful of water and drank it from the hollow of his palm. He wiped his mouth with his knuckles and looked up, regarding the younger man with a critical gaze. "A loss of alertness is usually a good indication for taking a break."

Zechs let out an impatient little puff of air. "Don't lecture me now. We have so much work, I don't know where to start, and you're talking about rest."

"An exhausted commander is prone to making mistakes…"

"…that cost lives, yes. How tired were _you_?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. I know all that, but how likely is it they'll hit us twice in forty eight hours?" He shook his head. "I have the area monitored, anyway." Another tiny break, then a belated "Sir."

Treize touched Zechs' elbow. "Thank you, lieutenant."

Zechs chewed his lip, stared past Treize, then down to the floor, where droplets of water were rolling into small puddles on the oily concrete. "To think… that none of this needed to…" He broke off, drew up his shoulders with a shiver, and raked his hand through his soggy bangs. "I did not need this now. I could spare the men tied down at the mission control centre to add to the search and rescue teams if you'd let me hunt this bastard down." He shook Treize's touch off and reached for the grubby, oil-stained towel by the sink to rub his face dry.

Treize leaned against the wall. Observing. Listening. He was as pale as Zechs, his hair only slightly tidier, his features marked by exhaustion and grief, yet he radiated a cool, forbidding distance, and the calm of a good soldier under duress. A rock in the sea of sorrow that had very nearly overwhelmed them, someone to whom the survivors of the attack could turn for guidance and hold.

Without envy, Zechs acknowledged that he could never have done for those men what Treize was doing. Restoring their will to live, rebuild, fight on. For he had been taken under by his memories, and Treize had foreseen this…

He tossed the towel over the edge of the sink. "A couple of snipers from the Specials Units," he ranted on, but Treize cut in once more, his tone level, his gaze hard.

"If it is true what your first intelligence analysis showed, along with the reports from your eyewitnesses, then sending those two men would have meant killing them. A waste of resources under the most favourable of conditions; an act of reckless negligence under the current circumstances. Lt. Noin made the correct decision, based on her unbiased judgement. She may very well have saved the lives of her platoon."

"How the hell can you be unbiased after seeing what they've done here?"

Treize folded his arms. "I do not wage war against children. Not even when they play at being soldiers."

Ouch. Zechs flushed an angry red. "Play? How can you…" He drew a harsh breath. "It's all about your interest in their latest technology, isn't it? You sacrificed the base. You are prepared to risk more personnel for the sake of keeping this THING in one piece so you can examine it like some… mad scientist…"

The colour drained completely from Treize's face, leaving it ashen, his eyes incredulous at first, then bitter, and finally blank, cold and narrow. "In order to overcome your enemy, you need to understand his motives. AND his technology."

"I don't give a toss. I've seen enough."

"I know what moves you, my friend," Treize went on pointedly, ignoring the heated retort. "My father led the operation in Cinq that night; perhaps this is one reason for you to accuse me thus. But I've also seen what happened on colony L5. Did you know the young man who bombed this base hails from L5? And did you know what happened there a while ago?"

A military intervention to subdue a suspected rebellion. An orderly, almost routine manoeuvre that had spread like wildfire and run out of control, ending in a massacre.

Zechs swallowed hard, then he shook his head again and fixed Treize with a glare. "I don't care."

"Revenge," Treize returned, pushing himself off the wall and unfolding his arms, "is seldom a good motive to act."

"You trying to teach me some lesson now?"

Treize's lips thinned as he reached for the rusty handle of the hangar door. "Lessons. One, if there is something you want to clear up with me, do it. Two, a good commander does not have time to do the footwork because he is busy planning his next moves. Three, revenge usually hits the innocent along with the target. And sometimes, only the innocent. I… have no time for footwork. You'll find me at the control centre when you're ready." With that, he turned his back, crossed the threshold, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Zechs jumped, in spite of himself. He dragged his hand over his eyes and then stared at the grey, stained metal for a moment, before he realised that the water was still streaming into the sink that was near to overflowing.

He turned the tap of, then sagged against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

xxx

He had left Otto to his work and gone for a lonely, restless walk across the base. Found himself scrambling about in the ruins of the school. Scrubbing his sleeve across his face, to mop up the salty dampness that kept running over his cheeks – rain, for sure…

In a corner of what once would have been a classroom, washed-out pictures still pinned to pale peach walls streaked with soot, torn lino on the floor, pages of books fluttering limply on the treacherous ground… a hulking, black form, clumsy on three legs, one of them sunken into the rubble, one splintered, black laquer peeling in thick flakes from wood pocky with the impact of a shower of sharp-edged stone fragments… a grand piano.

Zechs caught a glimpse of it as he bent to gather a couple of pages, covered in clumsy scrawls, lines of diligently drawn letters in an unpractised children's hand… He folded the paper and pushed into the chest pocket of his overall, before stumbling towards the piano. Some keys knocked out by a fallen brick that still sat there, others chipped, most of them fine.

He stretched out his hand and let his fingers settle, assuming the correct position by habit, internalised like breathing or swimming or dreaming…

Thin and muted, the tune rose beneath his hand.

He dropped to his knees, then folded into a tight crouch, one arm pressed against his stomach… his fingers still playing the tune his mother had been playing that night…

A children's tune. A good-night ditty. A simple, cheerful melody with silly little lyrics that sang of sheep in the sky…

Treize collected him, hauling him up and dragging him away without a word.

xxx

"Rainy time," Zechs said, staring through the broken window of the ruined canteen near the rubble heap that remained from the school. The room was dank and muggy, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant creeping into everything. On the field of graves, the lone rose Treize had planted was drooping under the swathes of rain that kept beating down, turning the reddish earth into a lake of knee-deep mire. In no more than a few days, a shimmer of fresh green would cover the bare soil, and just a little longer hence, life would burst forth in lush abundance, obliterating the starkness of Death. Someone would fence the rose in and take care it prospered, a frail, living reminder of what had happened... a warning that life must not mean forgetting, that life could be wiped out at a whim... that it had to be protected.

_A rose. The perfect choice. And then, it was not, for the climate here… but the effect had been worth it, was it not?_

"Why did you let that boy go?"

Treize, a polystyrene cup with coffee in one hand, the other one cradling his elbow, seemed to find his drink fascinating. "I had hoped he would understand. That I could teach him a lesson."

"He murdered this base. He nearly killed Lucy after provoking her beyond measure. He blames you for everything that ever befell him, and for what happens in this war."

A small pause, then Treize sighed. "I am guilty of this, too." _For sometimes, mercy is a sin…_ "And someone has to take the blame. I do not mind; in fact, I expected as much. But you and he… you have things in common."

Zechs looked aghast.

Treize met his gaze calmly. "He has his reasons, and they very much remind me of yours."

"His ramblings about justice?"

"How is justice different from revenge?"

"Legitimacy…" Zechs faltered, then stalled.

Treize nodded. "Yes. And who provides legitimacy?"

"The powers that be," came the reply, a hoarse, muted murmur.

"And what if they change? If the means of delivering... justice change hands? If the balance suddenly shifts? The scales of justice are an apt image indeed… so fickle, so easy to tip. And the lady, in my opinion, is not blind, as inall classical imagery, but chose not to see. Therein lies a significant difference, don't you think, my friend?"

Zechs stared at Treize in bewilderment. From outside drifted the stench of decay and sorrow, and Treize was rambling philosophically? "I'm a soldier," he said gruffer than intended, "I don't want to think about this kind of complication."

"Yes, because, like any good soldier, you merely follow orders," Treize said tersely, "and hope they are given with a good conscience and for the best of everyone concerned."

_Ouch._

"Or is it for glory you fight? The glory of soldiers… it's but a shortlived thing. A husk of pomp and swagger, to cover the misery beneath. Sanctioned murder is our trade. No more."

Zechs began to worry in earnest. "Treize… Tre, what's wrong with you?"

"I always thought you could do better," Treize went on, apparently ignoring the interruption.

"But I can't," Zechs cut in.

"You can, and you will. Everyone needs beliefs, of one kind or another. Dreams, ideals, call them what you like. I believe in you, Miliusha. I believe." A long silence settled between them, until Treize shook his head. "I am sorry. I will have to leave tomorrow to finish my... inspection tour."

Rallying his troops... Anyone could have missed the odd click in his tone, the slight shift and tremor. Anyone but Zechs, who turned from his observation of strings of rain to looking at his friend. "Tre?"

No answer. No movement, either. Treize stood in utter stillness, and for a heartjolting second, Zechs was overwhelmed by the horrifying vision of him not breathing… Treize did not stir when Zechs' hand alighted on his shoulder, a comforting, comradely touch of fingers worn hard and raw with work. But he drew a deep breath and let it go slowly. "Mother is unwell," he said quietly.

"Unwell?" Alarm swept through the younger man, dispersing the numbness of exhaustion and grief. "What-"

Treize began to turn the cup in his hand, his fingers scraping over the white material as he spoke, slowly, enunciating each word carefully as if not to trip up. "On this occasion, I shall be selfish enough to grant you leave for my own personal reasons. Otto will do fine for a while; he will take it as a sign of trust. I want you to go home. It is likely that you will not need to be absent for too long… two weeks, I have been told."

The hand on his shoulder slid to his upper arm and pressed slightly. "Vam skasali? (1) Two weeks for what? Who told you?"

"I had her doctor on the videophone this morning," Treize said, and finally tiredness won through his schooled façade of control. "Ona… moya matj umirayet... " (2) Slipping back into his mother tongue, as always when something was touching him to the core... a long, heavy pause, then,barely above his breath, "Ona nikagda gavarila mnye." (3) And he was blaming himself for missing the signs. Always, always shouldering the blame, accepting responsibility, taking the load off others…

Zechs was at a loss for words, and simply held on to Treize.

Who placed his hand over Zechs' fingers and pressed lightly. Acknowledging, welcoming the silent support. "I… I cannot go to Russia now." With everything coming to boiling point… the troops in dire need of a moral joist. Desperate for someone to lead them, defying dithering politicians and colony rebels alike, they must have their infallible commander now, not the suffering soldier or griefstricken son.

They were hungry for their hero, sparkling, wilful, and utterly unfrail.. And Treize was going to give him to them, even now.

Especially now.

"When?" Zechs asked quietly.

Very pale, very composed, if not for the shuttered darkness deep in those brilliant blue eyes… heartless, cold, ruthless… Zechs had heard many a thing said about Treize, good and bad, and felt guilty of having judged his friend rather harshly himself at times. Not then though. Not when he caught Treize's raw gaze. "If you… if you could take my private plane and leave as soon as we're done here tonight?" Not an order, but a plea even though it was spoken in a smooth voice, the accent perhaps a tad more pronounced than the usual soft, guttural rasp.

"I could take off in about two hours."

"Spasibo… thank you."

Another silence, Treize lapsing back into himself as he swirled the dredges of the coffee.

And Zechs wondered, as it dawned on him... "Tre?"

"Hm?"

... in disbelief... "Are you running from it?"

Treize drank the last sip of coffee. Then, the brittle admission, "Yes. I suppose I am."

The great soldier. Leader of men at arms. Determined, willing, and capable to face off Death in many forms on the battlefield of the stars.

Treize was afraid of seeing his mother die.

Zechs hesitated fora heartbeat, before simply leaning against his friend, and he felt Treize tense up... before he yielded and sagged against the blond. Wordlessly, they stared into the rain where the rose began to unfold its blooms.

And as always, with every beginning, something else would come to an end. Yet this time, both the end and the beginning bore the marks of death.

xxx

THE END of LA1

xxx

**Notes:**

**(1)** vam skasali? – Вам сказали? – you have been told/they told you?  
**(2)** ona… moya matj umirayet – ona… моя мать умирает – she… my mother is dying  
**(3)** ona nikagda gavarila mnye – она никогда не говорила мне – she never told me


End file.
